


Hand Covers Bruise

by Pholo



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Dissociation, Domestic Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, In this house we dropkick Diamond into the sun, Nightmares, Okay so this one's gonna' get heavy lads, Other, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Police Brutality, Sex (eventually...I'll add more tags once we get to that chapter), definitely heed the tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26069719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: Peter meets Juno when he's still with the HCPD...and Diamond.__The officer holds up a plastic cup. “Water?”Ah—the gruff voice from before. Peter knows better than to refuse. He sidles up off the floor, then shudders from his toes to his fingertips. His ribs feel like a battered marimba. He does his best to fold away the worst of the pain, crosses his legs and holds out his hand. The officer passes him the cup. Peter drinks.“Come to play good cop, have we?” Peter asks once he’s done.The officer plucks the empty cup out of his hand. “Pretty sure we both know that’s an oxymoron, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Relationships: Diamond/Juno Steel, Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 89
Kudos: 359





	1. Chapter 1

By all natural laws, Peter should have escaped.

He has the Diamond of Deimos. Police cars scream down the street, the puddles below set ablaze by their red and blue sirens—but Peter has a clean shot to his getaway car. Like a cat onto a mantlepiece, he hops from the museum window to the driver’s seat. His hands clap around the wheel, and he punches the gas.

The cops are still a few blocks away. It will be simple to shake them. Peter smirks as he soars towards freedom.

Then blaster shots boom down the street. Peter laughs. He checks his rearview mirror for the fireworks display of sirens at his heels—then the dashboard, where his barometer edges towards 80 miles per hour. The cops have to be at least 500 feet away. Both they and Peter are leagues over the speed limit.

It’s cute, really, that anyone thinks they could make that shot.

That’s Peter’s last thought before a stun blast hits the back of his head.

Peter has been beaten up before. He knows how to retreat into himself like a mole tunneling into warm peat, and swaddle his mind in darkness until the danger has passed. It doesn’t stop the pain, this tactic—but it does dull it, in the way of a sheet thrown over a bright light.

Peter isn’t sure how long he lies on the floor of that room, at the mercy of a nebulous storm of muddy boots and clenched fists. Then a new voice tickles the edge of Peter’s awareness, gruff and sure. The pain peels away. Footsteps ring between Peter’s ears. A door slams.

Peter doesn’t come back to the world right away. He waits, braced for the next round. When no new pain comes, he dares to dip a toe outside his sanctuary, long enough to test the waters.

He finds the interrogation room mostly as he left it, albeit with his chair kicked to the side—and a lady hunched like a gargoyle at one corner. He’s short, with a rumpled old coat thrown over his uniform and the kind of shadows under his eyes that would put a raccoon to shame.

The officer holds up a plastic cup. “Water?”

Ah—the gruff voice from before. Peter knows better than to refuse. He sidles up off the floor, then shudders from his toes to his fingertips. His ribs feel like a battered marimba. He does his best to fold away the worst of the pain, crosses his legs and holds out his hand. The officer passes him the cup. Peter drinks.

“Come to play good cop, have we?” Peter asks once he’s done.

The officer plucks the empty cup out of his hand. “Pretty sure we both know that’s an oxymoron, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

There's a bitterness behind the words that feels familiar—though Peter can’t tell how. His thoughts are slippery, part of his brain still huddled somewhere outside of his body. “Well then—what does that leave? You aren’t here to pummel me, and you aren’t here to sweet talk me. Am I to presume you’ve come for the rustic decor? Or perhaps the room service?”

“More like a quiet place to sit down.” The officer drags Peter’s chair over to the table. “But somehow I get the sense you aren’t gonna give me that, are you?”

“I could be persuaded,” Peter says, by which he means his ribs would rather he shut up too. “Just one small question.”

The officer snorts as he scoots his chair closer to the table. “That’s my line.”

“Did you fire that shot?”

“If you mean the shot that hit you and not the billboard down the street, then yeah.”

“It shouldn’t have been possible.”

The officer sets his elbow on the table. He leans his cheek on his hand. “Yeah yeah, I know—I’m a real affront against nature. Now can we both shut our traps for a hot second?”

“Of course, mister…”

“Steel.”

 _Steel._ Peter watches _Steel_ turn his face farther down against his palm. His shoulders are slumped, his hair ruffled. In that moment he looks as fragile and brittle as a dried wheat stalk.

Peter could almost buy his excuse about a quiet place to sit—except for the footsteps outside. Peter can see the telltale blue and black flashes of police uniforms through the window over the door handle.

The officers left because Steel asked. Now they can’t resume their fun until he’s gone.

For whatever reason, Steel has decided to guard Peter from his vengeful cohorts.

Peter doesn’t know what to do with the fact. It’s strange. He knows how to make people want to help him, but only as an alias. It’s been half a decade since a person stuck their neck out for him after he showed his true colors.

Why does Steel care about a liar and a thief like Peter Nureyev?

He almost wants to ask, but Peter knows better than to push his luck. He’s not about to drive his protector out of the room. So the two sit together, Steel curled over the table and Peter a bruised lump on the floor, and don’t say another word.

Peter’s transport shows up soon enough. It’s as he’d hoped: he’d made enough of a pathetic display at the station that they only bother to assign him two guards, not a squad. Out of courtesy for Steel Peter doesn’t slit their throats, but leaves them gagged and hogtied on the side of the road.

The real problem arises as Peter makes his getaway. He can only push down the pain for so long, and the goons at the station did a real number on his ribcage. He’s only a few miles from the officers when the neon signs around him start to flare. Pain sears up his chest with every strike of his feet.

Fuck. Peter knows this kind of pain—knows the cloud that gathers behind his eyes, and the way the ground seems to lilt under his shoes. He’s about to pass out. While he still has the mind to do so, Peter turns and barrels down another, smaller alleyway. It’s a residential space, with enough balconies and clothes lines to shield him from any drones that might wander overhead.

Peter hears more than feels himself crumple against a brick wall. He hits the ground on his side; there’s one last spear of pain through his lungs, and then the world slips away.

There’s a pillow under Peter’s head.

He doesn’t react. If he’s been captured, he won’t want to show his hand. So long as he pretends he’s still asleep, he can buy more time to plan before the questions start.

Peter stretches out his senses. He can feel a blanket over the lower half of his body, and plush material under him—too leathery for a mattress. A couch, maybe? Why would Peter be on a _couch?_

What else…

He can hear the river rumble of faraway traffic. A radiator plinks somewhere to his right. He can see yellow light past his eyelids. The pillow under his head smells like a dusty closet.

Peter peels his ears for the barest graze of a footstep. But there’s a certain weight to an occupied room, and this one feels stark as a wasteland by comparison.

Peter opens his eyes.

He’s right: he’s alone. For whatever reason he’s on a couch, next to a table and a bookshelf. It’s an oddly barren living room, with only a couple pills, a mug of water, and a slip of paper to occupy the vast expanse of the coffee table.

The paper reads,

_Tylenol for pain, Aridithymene for faster healing. You’re at an HCPD safe house…last place they’d check. Snacks in the pantry. Don’t use any spaceports for the next three weeks._

There’s no signature, but somehow Peter doesn’t need one. He picks up the paper and traces the curl on the “y” of “Aridithymene” with his finger.

How did Steel know where to find him? Why had he taken him here and not back to the HCPD? Peter flips the note over and back again, as though he can will the answers to appear on the other side. When none manifest from the aether, Peter puts down the note and peels off his blanket. His ribs still feel awful, but better now that he’s had some time off his feet. He determines that the pills on the table are truly Tylenol and Aridithymene, and takes them with the mug of water.

He folds the blanket, grabs a bag of jerky from the pantry, and then he’s out the door.

Steel closes his car door. It pops back open. He grumbles, nudges the seat belt out of the way, and slams the door loud enough to echo up the street. It stays closed.

Then Steel sees Peter.

“Shit,” he says, hand already on his blaster. “What the hell, Sawyer!”

“Good evening to you too, officer Steel.”

Steel’s hands fly up to his head; he grips at his hair and groans. “Why aren’t you halfway to Kerberos by now? How did you even find my place?”

“You have a public record,” Peter reminds him, because that feels less creepy than _I hot-wired a car and followed you home from the station_. “And weren’t you the one who advised me to stay away from the ports?”

“Like a guy like you wouldn’t know how to book a trip on a private shuttle,” Steel says. “What do you want?”

“Dinner.”

Juno gawks. His hands fall down to dangle at his sides. He says,

“Dinner.”

“To thank you for your help,” Peter says.

“I shot you!”

“With a stun blast. Then you shielded me from your coworkers and nursed me back to health at your safe house.”

“I gave you a couple pills and a lumpy couch, not open heart surgery!”

“You could have brought me back to the station.”

“I still can!” Juno snaps. “For fuck’s sake, Sawyer; I’m a cop. You’re a criminal.”

“With reservations to Townhouse Toulouse.” Peter takes a step closer on the pavement. “Come now, officer. What’s one dinner?”

“With you? Five years without parole, give or take.”

“Oh, please. This is the largest city on the planet. What are the chances one of your posse will cross paths with us at the very same restaurant at the very same time?”

Steel crosses his arms. “I dunno’. What were the chances of me making that shot?”

“I underestimated _you_ last night, Steel, not your department.”

Steel seems to take a moment to digest that. Then he snorts. He drums his fingers on the side of his arm.

Peter can feel something shift as Steel stands there. His frown deepens, and his shoulders square. His gaze climbs from the sidewalk all the way up to the top of his apartment complex. A car passes, and the headlights catch the lines of his throat as he swallows.

Then Steel uncrosses his arms and pulls his comms out of his pocket. He thumbs out a message.

“Told my partner I have some extra work to do,” he says when he’s done. “Something tells me we have to take my car?”

It’s a nice place, the Toulouse; all marble pillars and Rococo elegance. There’s a candle on Peter and Steel’s table, and menus printed on soft cardstock. Steel cups his hand over the candle flame. Peter watches the way the light plays with the grooves of his palm and fingers.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Steel says, apropos of nothing. “It’s all so…plastic.”

Peter could pretend he doesn’t know what Steel means, but he does. Not so long ago he was a child on the street. He remembers the first day Mag took him to an upscale diner—how out of place he felt amongst its patrons, like a sea urchin in a jewelry box.

But Peter has spent so much time under a mask that he’s come to feel at home amidst the “plastic” restaurant crowd. These—the play pretenders; the flaunters and the weasels of society—are Peter’s people now.

He doesn’t say as much to Steel. Instead he tells him, “Well! You’ll just have to pick the restaurant next time.”

Steel snorts. “Don’t push your luck, Sawyer. What’s your game, anyway?”

“My…game?”

“Your game; your plan. Or would _scheme_ be more on brand?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Steel.”

Steel retracts his hand and taps the words onto the tablecloth: “Why. Are. We. Here?”

“Well—perhaps things work differently on Mars, but in my experience, people typically go to a restaurant to eat food together.”

Steel looks like he’s not sure whether to laugh or slam his head against the table. “I’m a cop,” he announces, as though that were news.

“So you keep saying, yes.”

“And you’re a—”

“Hardened criminal. And yet you’ve gone out of your way to protect me, and agreed to share a meal with me.” Peter leans forward. “It seems to me, Steel, that you may not be as bothered by all this as you let on.”

Steel looks like he’s about to protest, but then the waiter manifests at the front end of the table.

“Good evening, sir,”—to Peter—“madame,”—to Steel. “Welcome to the Townhouse Toulouse. Would you care for a drink?”

“A glass of Venusian Red, please.”

“And for the lady?”

Steel doesn’t even glance at the drinks menu. “Whatever sends the most customers to the ER.”

“A Kuiper, then,” the waiter says, and makes a note. “Would you two like another moment to look over the menu?”

Peter tells him they would. The waiter nods and makes his retreat. Steel plucks at the corner of his menu.

“I can’t even read half of these,” he says. “What the fuck is a lobster?”

“An old Earth crustacean. Red. Delicious.”

“It’s eight hundred creds.”

“…And on sale.”

Steel covers his eyes with his hand. “Do they have any grilled cheese?” he asks helplessly.

“Hmmm…” Peter surveys the menu. “I can see a mushroom croque-monsieur.”

“I mean…as long as you’ve got the bill…”

“It’s no trouble.”

“Fine then.” Steel flicks the menu away.

An older woman tinkers across the room on a see-through grand piano. Peter makes a selection of his own. As they wait for the waiter to return, he says,

“So. How was work?”

Juno looks at Peter as though to gauge whether or not he’s serious. Then he says, “Hell. The station's a real mess. Some jewel thief broke into the Grand Deladyre and tried to make off with a diamond the size of a baseball.”

“They must have been quite a thief, to have bypassed security as high-end as the Deladyre’s.”

“Not good enough to dodge a stun blast, though.”

“Well! In all fairness to the thief, you are a _very_ good shot.”

Peter swears he can see Steel’s mouth start to tug up at the corners. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“How’s work?”

Peter waves his fingers. “Oh, dreadful. A police officer shot me in the back of the head just as I was about to pull off the heist of the century.”

Steel feigns offense. “Wow. Rude.”

“It’s all right. He saved me from some ruffians and let me take him out to dinner, so I’ve decided to forgive him.”

It’s then that the waiter returns with their drinks. The concoction he sets before Steel looks like a liquified grease fire. Peter relays their orders as Juno takes a hearty swig.

The waiter walks away. Peter asks, “Good?”

Steel smirks. “Want to try?”

He nudges the glass forward on the table. Peter knows Steel expects him to refuse. Out of defiance, he accepts the glass and takes a tiny sip.

He chokes. Steel looks on, smugly serene as Peter struggles not to splutter the drink out all over the table. His bruised ribs burn as he swallows, then coughs.

“That’s…” Peter wheezes, “quite strong.”

“You should try the stuff at the Poor and Floor,” Steel says. He takes his glass back. Silverware clicks and couples laugh; across the room, the pianist wraps up her song. She gets two or three very polite claps for her trouble.

Steel stares down at his drink. He loops his finger around the edge, over and over.

Peter says, “Steel?”

“It’s Juno,” Steel says. “Juno Steel.”

 _Juno Steel._ A beautiful name for a beautiful lady. Peter can pretend all he wants, but he knows deep down he would drink another dozen glasses of that eldritch neon sludge to see Juno Steel smile. He came here for the company, not answers.

He’s well and truly sunk.

Maybe Juno can tell, because a look passes over his face—one Peter can’t read. He stumbles up and out of his chair.

“This was a mistake,” he says dully.

“Juno—”

“You need to get off Mars. Yeah, most of the department’s a train wreck, but my coworker already tracked you once; I asked her to keep her mouth shut, but the captain knows she’s the best of the best, and the longer she doesn’t pick up a lead the more suspicious he’s gonna get.” He takes one last gulp of his drink. “Send my part of the tab to the station.”

“But—”

Juno won’t be persuaded. He turns and weaves past tables and patrons until he’s swallowed up by the elegant hubbub—the memory of a brown coat amidst a sea of chrome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon the on the nose title...I've been looking for an excuse to use it somewhere, since I always end up [listening to that track](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9SBNCYkSceU) on loop every time I write Penumbra fanfic.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [Jitterbug-juno!](https://jitterbug-juno.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

Peter leaves Mars when he can no longer afford to dawdle. Days turn to weeks. Weeks turn to months. Peter hops between planets and aliases. He refuses to accept he will never see Juno Steel again, but he’s resigned himself to the fact that they won’t cross paths for some time.

Then he gets a job offer.

It’s not so unusual for someone to reach out to Peter for freelance work. He keeps his contact details on a few of the more criminal forums for that very reason; he prefers to be his own boss whenever possible, but he knows he can’t always afford to turn away easy creds.

There are jobs Peter won’t take on these sites—jobs where killing isn’t an occupational hazard so much as the _point_. This is the first job he not only feels obligated to turn down, but to sabotage.

It is also based on Mars. Whether this proves the universe is cruel or kind Peter has yet to discern. He takes a shuttle to Hyperion, rents a car, and drives straight to the HCPD.

It’s past nine at night when Juno leaves the station. Peter, who has since relocated to the backseat of Juno’s car—what can he say; he’s always had a flare for the dramatic—lies very still as Juno wrenches open the driver’s-side door. The seat squeaks as he sits down; keys clink together.

Right as the engine starts, Peter sits up.

“Juno! It’s been a while.”

The sound Juno makes could have come from a squeaker toy. He whips around, blaster already half out of his pocket. Peter throws up his hands. As they lock eyes the shock melts from Juno’s face, to be replaced with—relief?

“Christ!” Juno pants. He lowers his blaster. “Sawyer, what the fuck are you doing here?”

Peter checks the time on his comms. “Oh, can’t I explain on the way? The seminar begins at eleven and we really can’t afford to be late—”

“The seminar? _What seminar?_ And how long have you been—”

Peter shoos at him. “On the way, Juno!”

“No! _Not_ on the way! It’s been a long-ass day and I’m the one with the keys, so you have to tell me why the hell I’d want to stick around and play chaperone for Mars’ most wanted when I have a bed and beer ready for me at home!”

Peter purses his lips. He assesses his options. Then he pockets his comms and folds his hands over his lap.

“Someone reached out to me five days ago,” he says. “They wanted to pay me to flood the Richmond Auditorium with noxious gas. I turned them down.”

Juno’s brow furrows. He cranes his neck around to check for any passerby outside. “And?”

“The next person won’t. If we can beat them to the Richmond, we’ll catch them in the act. As I turned down the job I wasn’t given any identifiable details, but the thief may have information that could lead to the capture of their employer.”

Juno props his elbow up on the seat and leans forward. Their faces are close now; Peter has to work very hard not to blush.

“Why should I believe you?” Juno asks, slow and deliberate.

“None of this benefits me. In fact, by tattling to the police I risk blacklisting myself from the community.”

“Yeah—so why bother?”

Because he has enough guilt without the weight of a hundred lives on his shoulders. “Is it so hard to believe I could possess a conscience, Juno?”

Juno’s frown deepens. Somehow he looks even more worn down than the last time Peter saw him, like a fighter plane held together with string and Gaffer tape. “Kind of, yeah, when you could’ve picked up your comms from podunk Pluto or wherever and left an anonymous tip. There’s gotta be a reason you flew all the way here.”

“To catch a thief of this tier requires a much smaller operation. The department would only have scared him off, leaving his employer free to make another attempt.”

“You could’ve called _me_ , then.”

Peter pouts. “You never gave me your number.”

“You already pointed out I have a public record!”

“Oh, very well,” Peter declares, and pretends to offer up his wrists for handcuffs. “You’ve caught me, officer. I may have also been taken with the opportunity to see your lovely face again.”

Juno’s mouth opens and closes. His knuckles strain where he grips the back of his seat.

Then he laughs. It’s such a wretched sound that Peter’s heart aches. In that moment he’s possessed by a gust of concern so strong he very nearly throws his arms around Juno’s shoulders—but he anchors himself with a hand on each of his knees.

“This is so fucking ridiculous,” Juno says. Not _I can’t_. Not _I’m taken_. Not _I don’t like you_. He shifts the car from park to drive. “You want shotgun or what?”

Peter slips through the gap between the seats, and Juno pulls away from the curb.

Two hours and a messy foot chase later lands them at the sidewalk outside the Richmond, winded and thoroughly coated with dust. The thief lies sprawled at their feet—out cold, courtesy of Juno’s blaster, and bound with some elastic chords Peter found backstage. Peter says,

“You’re sure you don’t want the credit for this catch, Juno?”

“Just call the station,” Juno says. He’s bent over with his hands braced on his thighs, ruffled like a crow in a windstorm and positively glowing with residual adrenaline. “I didn’t exactly get a permission slip on this one.”

So Peter calls the station to tip them off. He’s already sent their video evidence to the department’s public line. 

As he hangs up, Juno giggles. 

“Wow,” he says. His hands find the base of his spine, and a joint cracks where he twists from side to side. “I really needed that.”

“Surely there are foot chases at the HCPD?”

“What? Oh yeah, plenty.” Juno pauses. “Hey, did you mean it when you said I could pick the restaurant?”

Peter stares at him. Then he smirks. “So you’ve come around to my roguish charm. What finally convinced you?”

“Low blood sugar,” Juno snarks—but Peter can hear his smile. He starts down the street; Peter follows. “Busy day at the station. Haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Am I to assume you’ll stay long enough to eat the food you order this time, then?”

Juno doesn’t respond right away. The two of them round a bend, to the small stretch of asphalt where Juno’s car squats like a dejected cockroach. Juno twirls his car keys between his fingers. Some of the tension has returned to his shoulders.

Peter can already hear sirens from far, far down the road.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” Juno says at last. He wrenches open the broken driver’s side door. “This is still a mistake. But I’ve decided I’m going to make it anyway.”

“Dare I ask why?”

Juno sighs. He and Peter arrange themselves at the front of the car; two car doors slam shut, one with more oomph than the other. The engine shudders to life. Juno steers them towards an alley and says,

“Dunno’. Maybe the whole moral crusader shtick has started to get old. Or maybe…” He stops. The engine rumbles; Juno turns on his signal and climbs to one of the upper lanes. “You know. Might as well, right? When you’ve got nothing left to lose.”

There’s always been a fragile heat to Juno’s voice, like the ash at the end of a cigarette. That’s all gone now, replaced by a tiredness so tangible Peter almost has to wilt against his seat.

Juno seems to surface from his melancholy. He clears his throat and adds, “Also, there’s your roguish charm.”

“Oh, thank goodness. For a moment there I was afraid I’d lost my edge.” Peter plucks at the mandibles of an empty cup-holder. He remembers a red, red room, and the denouncement of his name; his past; his dreams. When the silence stretches on he says, “Do you _want_ to go to dinner with me, Juno?”

Juno risks a glance away from the road. “Um. I offered, didn’t I?”

“Because you _want_ to, or because nothing matters?”

“Don’t see why I have to pick one or the other, to be honest. What, do _you_ not want to go to dinner?”

“I do.”

“Okay, so. Pizza or burritos?”

Peter holds up his hands in the universal _I give up_ gesture. “I suppose I could do for a pizza.”

“There! That wasn’t so hard. Yeesh, Sawyer, you really gotta’ work on your—”

“Peter.”

Juno’s fingers twitch around the wheel. He says, “Um. What?”

“My real name is Peter Nureyev.”

The car rumbles underfoot. Street lamps sweep over the driver’s side every few meters—great yellow stripes that halo Juno’s face and coat. After a while Juno says,

“You sure you want to tell me that?”

As though Peter can take it back. “It’s a mistake I’ve decided to make.”

The next flash of lamp light catches Juno’s smile.

“Huh,” he says, with what sounds like awe. He pulls them around another corner. “Peter Nureyev.”

They drive on. Peter’s heart pounds and pounds and pounds.

Juno takes them to one of those 24-hour diners that feel a step to the left of reality. The two trade work stories over pizza and breadsticks, for long enough that the waitstaff switch over and Juno starts to nod off at the table.

As they sidle out of their booth Peter asks, “When was the last time you slept?”

Juno adds a wad of creds to the receipt on the table; Peter had never charged him for the aborted croque-monsieur, and he’d swatted Peter’s hand away from the bill. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

“And how would you define ‘couple?’”

Juno shrugs. “Two? Three? They start to kind of…” he makes an odd hand gesture that ends with his fingers laced together. “Merge, after a while.”

“I see.” Peter steers him towards the door. “Why don’t you let me drive you home?”

“I’m not _drunk.”_

“Perhaps not, but lack of sleep weakens the signals between neurons; alcohol disrupts the same process. Twenty-two hours without sleep will reduce the average person to a state equal to or worse than drunkenness.”

“Huh. You must be a real star at parties.”

“I am.” Peter can't decide whether the fact makes him proud or bitter. He holds open the door, and the two slip outside.

Juno rifles through his pockets. It’s a warm night, but for whatever reason he hasn’t taken his coat off since he left the station. He emerges triumphant with his keys: “Just don't make me arrest you, all right?”

Peter accepts the keys. It feels like a sign of trust, even though Peter would never make off with such a rusty soda can of a car. There’s a bounce to his step as he leads them across the lot. By contrast, Juno moves like a pile of sludge. He reaches the car, closes the door, and deflates onto the seat.

Peter’s lucky he knows Juno’s address, because he’s asleep before they’ve pulled out of the lot.

A part of Peter wonders whether he ought to wake him. He’s sure Juno didn’t mean to fall asleep—he’d barely trusted Peter with his keys, let alone his unconscious body. But Juno has always looked so beaten down, from the moment they’d met—and now, to glance over and see him curled up with his hair scrunched against the window…

Peter doesn’t stand a chance. He lets him rest. 

The traffic runs thinner this time of night. Peter keeps to the upper lanes to avoid potholes, though he suspects Juno could sleep through a car crash. It’s been years since he’s driven anyone anywhere—his marks are almost always rich enough to employ chauffeurs, or vain enough that Peter feels the need to play their damsel passenger. With a wheel under his hands and Juno asleep at his side, he’s not sure whether he feels like Peter Nureyev—but he knows he doesn’t feel like August Miller or Vincent Price or Roy Desmond or even Miles Sawyer, and that’s enough to make the vice loosen around his heart.

They reach Juno’s block far too soon. Peter eases them down to the ground lane. He turns the key, and the car goes still under his feet. Juno might as well be a pile of bricks for all he stirs. He’s slumped against the door with one arm thrown over his stomach, his legs bent to fit under the glove compartment. A spot of fog waxes and wanes where his breath hits the window glass.

He looks so small like this. Vulnerable.

Peter can’t put a name to the great well of _sentiment_ that floods his chest. He shoves the torrent back behind a mental door and says, “Juno.”

Juno doesn’t stir. Peter clears his throat and tries again, louder this time: “Juno.”

That does the trick. Juno thumps back against his seat like a snapped bowstring, hands raised as though to shield his face—then he spots Peter, and he softens.

“Right,” he mumbles. He drags a hand over his forehead. “How long was I out?”

Peter glances at the clock on Juno’s dashboard. “Half an hour, give or take?

“Felt like two seconds.” Juno opens his door.

Peter follows. The synth-wind musses his shirt collar as he fiddles with the broken driver’s side door. It stays shut on the third slam.

Juno has already crossed the street by then. He stands on the sidewalk outside his apartment complex, neck craned to stare up at that same swath of windows—and Peter can already tell something’s wrong, though he’s not sure how. Outwardly, Juno looks no worse for wear than he’s ever been. But without the barrage of city noise the wordless things are more pronounced. Peter doesn’t like the clawed shape of Juno’s fingers, or the hitch of his shoulders.

“Juno?” Peter hazards. He edges closer. “What’s wrong?”

No response. Peter extends a hand. His fingers graze Juno’s shoulder; Juno twists away as though they were live wires.

“I’m fine, dammit!” he shouts. “Just—just give me a second, okay?”

Peter nods. He stands back, though his chest burns and his arms strain at his sides. He can _feel_ Juno’s panic like the heat from a house fire. He watches the way Juno’s chest heaves and his fingers quake, and he knows that whatever stilts have kept Juno upright thus far are about to splinter under his weight.

Peter reaches for a mask, and finds someone whose voice won’t falter: “Why don’t we go back to the car for a moment?”

Juno shakes his head. A car flies by, and he wheels to face the street so fast he nearly trips on his own feet. Peter can’t help but take a step closer, ready to catch him.

“Come on, Juno,” he begs. “Let’s get you out of here. Please.”

Peter knows his mask hasn’t slipped, but there must be a change somewhere, because when Juno turns back to him there’s an odd look on his face. City ambiance fills the silence, gentled by the late hour but ever-constant. Litter rustles with the breeze. Juno’s gaze starts to hike back up towards the windows, but Peter makes a sharp noise and he stops:

“No, no, no—don’t look up, Juno. Look at me. Just look at me.”

And for whatever reason, Juno does. His gaze finds a foothold on Peter’s face, body strung tight with desperation as he gasps and gasps and gasps for breath. When Peter takes his first step towards Juno’s car, Juno lifts one leg, then the other. He staggers after Peter.

“That’s right,” Peter coaches, and guides Juno farther and farther across the street. “With me. You’re going to be all right. You’re going to be—”

Another car roars by, high enough overhead to throw a shadow over the street. This time Juno catches himself before he can look up. He follows Peter the last few feet to his car, where Peter—still armed with the keys—unlocks both doors.

The second they’re both seated, Peter moves to start the car—

“Don’t,” Juno snaps.

Peter’s heart races. They need to _run._ “There has to be somewhere else you could stay. We could get you to that safe house—or the Arsia Hotel; I have a reservation—”

“No.”

The surety of the word cuts through Peter’s panic, and he feels himself still. His grip around the keys loosens.

Peter can’t drive Juno anywhere he doesn’t want to go. Even as his gut screams at him to flee, he lowers his arm.

Juno flops back against his seat. Both hands come up to cover his eyes, palms cupped around the sockets and fingers spread. His chest heaves. Peter swears there’s wetness on his cheeks, past the hands that seem ready to shake apart.

“Fuck,” Juno grits out, a minute or a lifetime later. “Fucking Christ. Why am I so…It’s not like they’ll know. I already spend—” A pause for breath. “Fuck knows I already spend enough nights at the station…they don’t even bother to check, most of the—most of the time. Anymore.”

“Your partner?”

“They’re probably…asleep already, anyway. I don’t know why I’m…”

Juno bites his lip. He doesn’t go on.

Guilt swallows Peter like a vat of tar. He’s learned not to care about the guards or the aristocrats, but Juno…

Juno saved him—the real, deplorable him, not some mirage Peter spun out of satin and fairy dust. Juno, whether he meant to or not, unburied Peter’s personhood. And Peter has gone and treated Juno like a game; his latest, greatest challenge; a shiny object to be smuggled from its safe, not a real person who can be _hurt._

If Juno reacted this strongly to the very _prospect_ of his partner finding out about their dinner…

Peter studies the coat that covers so much of Juno’s skin. His stomach clenches.

“Juno,” Peter says. “I’m…so sorry.”

Juno’s fingers flex. “For what?”

“For putting you in danger. For only thinking of myself, and what I wanted.”

Juno throws his hands down onto his knees. “Look,” he pants. “I know I’m…a real pathetic mess right now. You caught me with my pants down, okay?”

“That’s not what I—”

“But I’m not some…helpless little kid. You asked me whether or not I—wanted to go to dinner, and I said yes. That was…that was my decision. And I don’t…regret it. So don’t you dare fucking apologize.”

“Okay,” Peter says dumbly. “I won’t.”

“Good.”

Silence resumes, thicker than before. A few more cars pass overhead. A man with a droopy hat and a backpack waddles up the street. Another pops out a back door; a match catches, and then a tiny red light ebbs and flares as they smoke.

There’s a click as Peter sets Juno’s keys down on the dashboard. Juno’s breaths have lost their breakneck pace by now, and when he moves to take the key ring his hands are mostly steady. 

“I should get up there,” he murmurs.

Peter’s fingers form fists on his thighs. He wishes he could pluck Juno out of this rusty shoebox and show him the universe. He wishes Juno would let him put a few blocks between them and whatever danger lurks behind those upper-floor windows. He wishes a lot of things—but Juno already has his hand on the door handle. He doesn’t even turn to Peter as he sidles out of the car.

Peter climbs out his own side. He looks on, powerless, as Juno crosses the street once more. He calls out:

“Juno!”

And Juno stops. A breeze stirs the lapels of his coat as he looks over his shoulder. The two stare each other down, and the street between them might as well be a chasm. Peter opens his mouth—but what can he say? He’s not allowed to apologize. It feels crass, to thank Juno for the dinner after such a scare.

Juno doesn’t offer any help. Peter knows enough about masks to recognize the one on his face right now—stoic, and haughty. The cracks are wide enough to see across the street: his wobbly legs; the hands that flex against the confines of his pockets.

Finally Peter concedes defeat. Just to fill the air he says, “Good night.”

Juno doesn’t react for a beat. Then he nods, scuffs his shoe against the pavement, and plods the rest of the way to the complex’s entrance. He lets the double doors close behind him without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmmm I gotta' comb through this for typos and stuff again tomorrow...but for now I must SLEEP
> 
> COMMENTS FILL ME WITH SUNSHINE!! I'm usually too shy to reply to them but I promise I read and cherish each and every one!
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: [Jitterbug-juno](https://jitterbug-juno.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAYYYYY so this chapter includes Some Stuff! Like, a lot of depersonalization/dissociation on Juno's part. There's also blood (Juno's hands are badly cut, to the point that Peter has to use that machine from Murderous Mask to patch him up)...and towards the end Juno tries to make out with Nureyev as a way to "pay him back" for his help (Nureyev shuts him down, but still). So tread carefully!
> 
> With that out of the way...ONWARD to hurt/comfort land!

It was one thing, to whisk Juno around Hyperion when the greatest threat to Juno’s person was a domestic squabble. But Peter has lured plenty of marks from their partners’ beds; he knows what that kind of guilt looks like on a person’s face. There’s a more potent threat over Juno’s head; one Peter can’t grasp the size or shape of beyond the shaky talons of his fingers, or the coat that hides so much of his skin.

Juno needs help. And you can’t lean on a man made of smoke.

Peter does what he’s best at and buys a ticket out of the mess he’s made.

The night before Peter’s shuttle ride, Juno appears outside Peter’s hotel room door.

Peter hears him before he sees him. Footsteps sound from the hallway, drawled and uneven. They stop right before Peter’s door, as Peter somehow knew they would. No one knocks.

Peter abandons his suitcase and sneaks towards the door. When he sees Juno on the other side of the peephole, his hand slips from his knife hilt to the door lock. Before he can process the weight of the decision, the door swishes open.

“Juno,” he says. “What’s—”

He's too stunned to finish. There are dark smears across Juno’s coat. Juno has his hands cupped to his chest, but even from this angle Peter can make out the rivulets of blood that sneak out between his fingers.

Peter chokes. He reaches for Juno’s wrist—and Juno stumbles out of arm’s length, head ducked down between his shoulders.

Right. Peter steps back a pace and says,

“There’s a bathroom to the left, down past the kitchen. I’ll meet you there with a first aid kit.”

Juno takes a moment to dwell on that, like he has to translate the words from a foreign language. Then he wanders through the doorway. There’s no quip or barb as he crosses to the bathroom—only vacant compliancy. Peter folds away his panic and locates the first aid kit. Then he follows.

Peter finds Juno standing at the center of the bathroom, staring down at his still-bleeding hands. Peter can see the damage fully now. Cuts crisscross his palms, some deeper than others. Peter swears he can make out a few shards amidst the blood—ceramic, maybe.

Peter fusses through his kit. He misses the glint of the stitcher on his first pass, and that awful panic seeps out from the crack under Peter’s mental door—but then the package of metal teeth and suture thread appears between a bundle of bandages and some cold packs. Peter’s heart unclenches. He goes to start the sink faucet. As a steady stream strikes the marble, he gestures to Juno to put his hands under the water.

Juno cups his battered palms under the tap. He doesn’t flinch as the water clears the blood from his skin. Peter, caught somewhere on the knife edge between Peter Nureyev and another, more competent alias, watches as two, then three shards reveal themselves along the creases of his hands.

“Just keep them under for a little longer,” he says, though Juno doesn’t seem present enough to require encouragement.

As the water does its work, Peter wipes down a pair of tweezers with disinfectant. He fishes a clean washcloth out of a pile near the tub.

“Can you come sit on the edge of the tub, please?”

Juno holds out his dripping hands. He observes them for a few seconds, almost as though he’s surprised they belong to him. Then he turns and closes the short distance to the tub.

Peter washes his own hands. He scrubs them dry with a bulky hotel towel. There’s a squeak as he shuts off the tap.

He sits beside Juno and asks,

“Show me your hands?”

Two hands unclench to reveal an array of cuts, made more discernible now from the water. Several ragged shards still draw blood around the very center of his palms.

Peter leans forward. “Juno. I’m going to need to touch your hands, all right?”

No response. A few excess drops of water bead off the edge of the tap. Juno might as well be lightyears away.

A question slips out from one of Peter’s folders: Was this how he looked, when Juno found him on the floor of that cell?

“Juno,” Peter repeats. And, _“Juno.”_

The second one lands. Juno lurches away.

Peter no longer bothers with an alias’ aloofness: “I’m sorry, Juno, but I need to touch your hands.”

There’s a pause. Peter hears Juno swallow. More blood fills the creases of his palms.

He slumps back towards Peter. He nods.

Peter tries for a smile. He cups Juno’s left hand as though it were a bird's nest, motions slow and delicate as he draws it to his chest. He picks the smaller shards out first, careful to disturb the skin as little as possible. The big shards are next. Peter waits for Juno to react, but he doesn’t so much as twitch as Peter combs through his left hand, then his right. The only sound is the barest _tink_ as Peter deposits each piece into the waste bin.

Once Peter has cleared Juno’s hands of debris, he dots a washcloth with disinfectant. Juno winces when he makes his first pass over his hand, which Peter takes to be a good sign. Only a few cuts haven’t closed over, and all but one appear to be superficial.

Peter dabs at Juno’s hands until they’re cleared of dried blood. He fishes out his stitcher and positions one hand under Juno’s upturned one, the pads of Peter’s fingers their sole point of contact. Then he slips his hand around to grasp the base of Juno’s thumb. He lowers the stitcher towards his skin.

“The stitches come next.” He sounds soft and cautious. Peter didn’t even know he could sound like that.

Juno won’t look down at their hands. When Peter doesn't move, he nods again.

Peter forces his grip to relax around the stitcher. 

“All right. Three. Two. One…”

The stitcher makes contact. Juno gives a full-on wince at the first knot, and Peter can't help but brush his thumb up and back along the side of his hand. He can feel a slight tremor there. “Shh, shh. Almost there, and…”

The machine putters along Juno’s thenar muscles, then stops as Peter releases the trigger. “Done. Now you’ll only need a bandage.”

The last knot ties off as Peter unlocks the stitcher. He snips away the thread. As he rummages through his bag he wonders,

“What happened?”

It’s a rhetorical question. Juno hasn’t said a word all night, and Peter doesn’t expect him to. But when he resurfaces with the bandages, Juno cups his cut-up hands together. He curves them up and away from each other, thumbs pointed upward.

Peter has retained a few solar signs from his teenage years. “A bowl. You…broke a bowl?”

Juno doesn’t respond. He studies the stitch pattern on his right palm. He doesn’t meet Peter midway, but his fingers unfurl when Peter goes to retake his hand.

Peter loops the bandages around and around one palm, then the other. The backs of Juno’s hands are soft and brown, his palms pinker; more calloused. These are a gunman’s hands—made toughest along the right middle finger and left palm from trigger guards and slide stops. They’re big and warm, and rest with weary trust between Peter’s slender fingers.

 _A broken bowl._ Juno did not pluck these ceramic shards off the floor one at a time. To forge cuts this deep, Juno would have had to gather fistfuls between his hands.

Peter feels sick. He can’t resist another shaky swipe of his thumb as he works, this time along Juno’s knuckles. Juno shivers. It’s as though Peter passed on the trill under his skin.

Juno’s posture loosens. Peter’s heart thumps.

Stupid. Reckless. Peter reigns his focus back to the bandages. He clips off the last strip, then applies a few bandaids to the smaller cuts along Juno’s fingers.

Maybe that’s excessive. Peter doesn’t care. Juno _deserves_ excessive.

Once he deems the bandaids secure, Peter throws the wrappers away. Static sticks a few to his fingers; he peels them off with as much dignity as he can muster.

He already misses the weight of Juno’s hands.

“All right.” Peter’s legs are stiff when he stands. “It’s late. Let’s find you a place to sleep, hmm?”

The Juno from two days ago would have protested, Peter knows. But when Peter makes to leave the bathroom, he follows.

The two enter the main room. Peter goes to clear his suitcase and clothes from the coverlet.

He’ll miss his shuttle. He doesn’t care.

“May I take your coat?” Peter asks, and makes a grabby gesture with one hand. “I’d like to have a look at those stains…”

Juno hovers on the other side of the room, upper body awash with neon light from the window. He lowers his hands from his chest. Bandaged fingers peel the coat from his torso. It leaves his shoulders with a limp rustle—and Peter goes very, very still.

Bruises. Deep purple with green tinges here and there, some clearly older than others. Juno doesn’t seem to register them at all. He crosses to Peter with all the glazed nonchalance of a sleepwalker. He holds out his coat.

It doesn’t make any sense. Peter barely knows this person—and he hasn’t been able to for years, but right now he wants to cry.

“Why don’t you get some sleep,” he suggests, all starshine and rainbows. He tips his head towards the bed.

Juno pads over. He peels back the sheets like he expects to uncover a snake pit. Then, slow as molasses, he climbs under the sheets. There’s a faint rustle as he pulls the blankets up over his chest.

Silence resumes. Juno lies there on the bed like a block of wood, awake-but-not-awake. Peter sets his coat on the table. He drums his fingers on his thigh.

Then he grabs his comms from the counter. He purchases a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and fabric cleaner from the nearest carrier. He pays extra for a drone delivery—and another couple dozen creds for a speedy turnover.

It doesn’t take long for Juno to fall asleep. Peter takes his coat back to the bathroom.

When Peter can’t run, he distracts. In that way he’s lucky to have a coat to fuss over.

Juno’s pockets are empty but for a few creds and his comms. Peter sets both on the sink counter and rolls up his sleeves.

First he runs Juno’s coat under the tub faucet. He makes several passes at the fabric, massaging the blood from the fibers until the water turns his fingers numb. The edges of a bloodstain are always the most stubborn; Peter was right to purchase the hydrogen peroxide. He dabs at Juno's coat, careful to add enough chemical to lift the stain but not enough to bleach the fabric. Then he fills the tub with a combination of cold water and laundry detergent and leaves Juno’s coat to soak.

Peter needs to be awake to fish the coat out of the tub later, and he’s too worked up to sleep anyhow—so he flits around the hotel room like a leaf caught in a dust devil. Juno slumbers on. Once or twice Peter stops his frantic circling to look at him: the tiny triangle of light across his cheek; the hill of blankets that grows with his breath; the dark skin that pokes out between the weave of Peter’s bandages.

He looks so soft and at peace. Peter is proud of have given Juno this piece of respite, however small. Only a few hours ago he was so sure he couldn’t take care of anyone at all…

And when they’d linked hands, Peter hadn’t felt tied down. He’d felt tethered. He hadn’t realized there was a difference until today.

Perhaps they could find a way, Peter muses. Is he wrong, to want that? To want to find a way to be solid enough—and Juno _open_ enough—for them to bushwhack a future out of this mess?

It’s a silly daydream, maybe—but one Peter can’t bear to fold away. Not yet.

The night passes without fanfare. As Peter hangs Juno's coat on a towel rack to dry, Juno's comms beep.

Peter doesn’t want to wake Juno, so he goes to turn them off. He can’t help but glance at the caller ID as he does so:

It would have taken some serious code work to make a name so… _sparkly_ , and anyone careless enough to carry paper creds on their person either doesn’t own a set of comms or doesn’t know how to use them. Someone added this contact to Juno's phone on his behalf. Peter recalls a “best of the best” tracker coworker and files them as his lead suspect.

He powers down Juno’s comms, grabs the wad of creds, and returns to the main room. He sets both on a little table near the window. Then he arranges a few wayward pillows on the couch and lies down.

It almost works. At one point Peter blinks and the light changes, so he knows he must have fallen asleep. But his mind won’t slow down enough for him to get any real rest. He gives up at around six.

Juno takes much longer to stir. Several times he grumbles and turns over, only to fall back asleep. Peter excavates a drawing pad from his pocket and doodles the hotel room. When that gets old, he plays with his comms. He gets a headache and takes an Ibuprofen.

Juno’s coat dries enough to be moved from the bathroom to the entryway coat rack. Little railroad tracks of light peek out between the window blinds.

A couple minutes after nine, a shout shocks Peter from his stupor. Sheets fly on his periphery; he turns to see Juno thrashing around on the bed. Peter’s comms clatter onto the coffee table:

“Juno! It’s alright. You’re at—”

He’s cut off by a growl. Peter screeches to a halt near the arm of the couch. He looks on as Juno rips the last few blankets from his feet, props a bandaged hand behind him for leverage, then curses and falls back against the mattress.

“What the hell! When did I—did we…” Juno’s chest heaves. “Did we fuck?”

Peter starts. “What?”

“Did we have _sex,_ Nureyev!”

“No.”

“Then what did—how am I here? How did I _get_ here?”

Peter takes a small step forward. “Juno. What do you remember from last night?”

Juno opens and closes his mouth. Some of the panic has left his face, but he’s still tense enough to crack down the middle. One hand comes up to grip his forehead.

Juno winces. He pulls the hand away—and seems to see his bandages for the first time. He stops.

“I broke a bowl,” he realizes.

“Yes.”

“There was a…I got kicked out.” He suspects one hand, then the other. “And I remember a woman at the front desk, when I got here. I walked here?”

He looks to Peter like he might know the answer. Peter only looks back. 

Juno’s throat muscles shift. Peter’s cheeks heat up.

“You stitched me up.” One finger comes up to trace the bandaid on his left hand.

“Yes.”

“How did I end up…on the bed?”

“I asked you to get some sleep. That’s all.”

“Okay, fine. So where did _you_ —”

“On the couch.”

Juno purses his lips. His glare cuts deeper than any spaceport scanner. Peter's skin crawls. All of a sudden he's sure Juno can see all the way to his rotten core.

But then Juno stands—careful not to use his hands for purchase—and surveys the hotel room. Peter resists the urge to fidget as Juno crosses to the entryway. He plucks his coat from the rack and fans open the lapels.

There’s a long pause. Juno frowns.

“There was blood on this,” he decides.

Peter shrugs. “Nothing a little cold water couldn’t fix.”

Peter can’t make heads or tails of the look Juno gives him then. There’s confusion, he decides. Maybe a hint of fear.

Slow as snowmelt, Juno draws his coat over his shoulders. He keeps his arms out of the sleeves, holding the garment closed over his chest with a clenched hand. Peter opens his mouth to offer him a painkiller, but Juno takes a step closer and somehow the words die on his tongue.

Another step. Peter’s heartbeat picks up and up. He feels like he’s suspended over a high drop, the rope around his chest about to snap.

Juno stops. There’s not even a foot of space between them now. Juno reaches up with his unoccupied hand—the right one, with Peter’s stitches across his “life line”—and takes Peter’s shirt collar. He pulls Peter down.

It’s a hungry kiss. Juno doesn’t once let go of Peter’s shirt; he reels him closer and chases his lips like the world’s about to end. Peter soars. His head spins. Amidst the swell of vertigo he feels an old thrill: He’s trained himself to see this as the breakthrough moment of a heist, when he knows he has his mark wrapped around his finger. From this moment on, they’ll do whatever he asks.

That’s the thought that rips Peter out of his haze. He breaks from Juno’s mouth, abrupt as a turntable needle knocked askew. He stumbles back. Juno stares after him, hand still raised where he’d held Peter’s collar. His coat has slipped a few degrees off one shoulder.

Silence slams down between them like a wall.

“Problem?” Juno snaps at last, still a little short of breath. He lowers his hand.

“That depends.” Peter points between them. “Do you want this?”

“Did you check out for the past minute or what? I _kissed_ you. Kind of a lot!”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Yeah, well! It’s a stupid question!” Juno turns fast enough to make his coat flutter. He uses his free hand to clutch at his hair. “For fuck's sake. It doesn’t matter _why_ I’d take you to dinner. It doesn’t matter why I’d kiss you!”

“It matters to me.”

“Because—?!”

Peter says, with complete surety, “Because I don’t want this unless you do.”

Juno squares his shoulders. The line of his lips goes taut. He scuffs one foot against the carpet.

“I showed up out of nowhere last night like some miserable old alley cat and you cleaned me up. Dressed up my wounds. Gave me your bed. Washed my—” He flaps his coat. “You washed the _blood_ out of my _coat!”_

Peter raises an eyebrow. “And?”

 _“And?”_ Juno demands. “The hell do you mean, ‘and?’ What do _you_ get out of this, Nureyev?”

“The knowledge that you’re safe,” Peter answers primly. “I’m honored that you trusted me enough to come to me last night. I’m very happy to have been able to help you, even for a short time. That’s more than enough for me.”

“Bullshit.”

It would be rude to massage his sinuses, so Peter folds his arms over his chest. “Do you have anywhere to stay?”

Juno looks thrown by the non-sequitur. “What?”

“You said you’d been kicked out. So do you have anywhere to stay?”

Juno calculates. His gaze finds the hand around his coat, and the bandages that wrap figure-eights across his skin. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Rita would freak out,” he concludes glumly. “Probably why I ended up here.”

“Is that a no?”

“I have my car.” A pause. “Maybe.”

“Well. You could stay here.”

Juno makes a face far too similar to the one he’d made when he found his coat. Peter clarifies, “Under the strict condition that you _want_ to. You aren’t allowed to say yes out of obligation.”

As though Juno cares about _rules_. Peter doesn’t need Juno’s life story to know he’ll feel pressured to stay regardless.

A nasty part of Peter doesn’t care.

Because he'd lied. One night _hadn’t_ been enough. He can’t let Juno go already—not when he’s mottled with bruises and bandages and his coat makes him look so _small_. Who knows how long his partner will hold his home hostage? Why should Juno have to live out of some deathtrap of a car when Peter has a warm bed right here, with plenty of food and medicine?

“It wouldn’t be any trouble,” Peter presses. “And there wouldn’t be any—ah. Romance. Just a place to recover until you’re able to go home.”

Juno snorts at that. But he pivots to get another look at the hotel room. It’s late enough now that daylight plays off the furniture. There’s the fridge; the couch; the queen-sized bed; the table by the window. Outside, Hyperion bustles with morning traffic.

Juno wipes the sleep from his eyes. Peter can still feel the fantom pressure of his lips.

“Sure,” Juno says. “What’s one more mistake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nureyev...my buddy...my pal...you're flying dangerously close to the last-part-of-the-Final-Resting-Place sun...
> 
> Fun times to come! I'm excited for There's Only One Bed adventures lol. 
> 
> Also, shoutout to Fawn who gave me the idea to have Diamond kick Juno out! I was really stuck and that got the plot a-rollin'! <33
> 
> OH! I forgot to mention that the "life line" thing comes from palm reading. It's the line on your palm that's supposed to represent your health.
> 
> Thank y'all sm for reading! Comments give me strength!! O:


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another big thank-you to FAWN who once again threw me a story life raft, this time with the suggestion of Rangian Street Poker! Also shoutout to Loonylu and Squidbitch for suggesting curry all the way back in like...August! GOOD LORD the passage of time is absurd this year!!

“I said I was fine, didn’t I? I’m fine. It’s fine.”

Juno patrols the hotel room like a police dog, comms pressed to his ear as he makes his rounds. Peter can hear tinny sounds of disbelief from Juno’s comms. Juno groans.

“Yeah, and I was fine then too! Just tell Hijikata I caught a bug or something.”

More tinny noises. 

“Because I’m—oh come on Rita, I took out three armed robbers without a scratch on me and then went home and mutilated myself with a bowl, okay? Does that sound like squad captain material to—” A pause. “Hey, hey, hey—calm down. Fuck, that’s not what I—‘mutilated’ was the wrong word. I didn’t mutilate myself. It’s fine. It’s a couple cuts. Yes, I know the diff—yes! And I’m telling you that as soon as they’re closed up enough to take the stupid bandages off, I’ll be back to work and the precinct’ll be none the wiser.”

Peter doesn’t look up from his notepad. Juno lets his friend chatter on for a while, then says,

"Just…cover for me for a couple days. I’ve got Diamond here to play nurse. What? Yeah. Yeah, fine, I guess. But nothing with werewolves. No, that’s doesn’t—”

Two beeps signal the end of the call. Juno groans. He snaps his comms shut; bandaged fingers relocate them to his pocket. 

Juno doesn’t slow his border patrol around the hotel room. He arrives at the kitchen and rifles through a cupboard. It’s a fancy enough suite to warrant an array of kitchenware. Saucepans gleam from hooks over the sink. Juno plucks one off the wall and tilts the handle so the bottom catches the light.

Peter squiggles another couple lines on his pad. Juno returns to the main room without comment. 

It goes on like that for a while. Peter doodles, and Juno flitters around the suite like a lost moth. He searches drawers; books; pillowcases. The minutes are punctuated by the routine click of Juno’s comms: over and over he pulls them out, observes what must be an empty message box, then closes them again. 

There are no traps planted around the hotel room. What few weapons Peter owns won’t be found under any couch cushions. He could line up his plasma cutter, knife and switchblade on the table—but Peter knows that won’t end Juno's search.

If Peter wanted Juno dead, he’d be gutted a dozen times over by now—not bandaged up. Juno knows that. Peter watches the manic tick of Juno’s fingers where he flips his comms open and closed and realizes the true nature of his search. It’s all a distraction from the real threat at hand.

“You might as well use the TV,” Peter offers. “No reason for the channels packet to go to waste.”

“You’re already on the couch, aren’t you? It’s your room. Put on what you want.”

Peter huffs. He closes his pad. “There are a few books on the shelf near the bed.”

“Yeah, I saw.” Juno plucks at the blinds. “If you want me to leave—”

“I _want_ you to sit down before you wear a rut in the floorboards.”

“Afraid I’ll find something I shouldn’t, huh?”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “What, under the window blinds? Yes, Juno, I’m terrified.”

Just to be as petulant as possible, Juno searches the bottom part of the blinds. 

Peter sighs. Fine. He may only have known Juno for a short while, but he’s gathered this much: Juno likes danger, and he can’t stand unanswered questions. Peter can play to that angle.

“Rangian Street Poker."

Juno pauses his ministrations. “Rangian…?”

“Street poker. A highly complex card game wherein competitors risk secrets instead of creds.” Peter sidles off his chair. “You can place your cards on the couch. That way you won’t have to strain your fingers.”

“You’ve skipped the part where I agree to play.”

Peter shrugs. “You want answers, don’t you? This will force me to tell the truth.”

“How?”

“The first rule of Rangian Street Poker, Juno: If I lie, you’re allowed to kill me—and vice versa.” Juno looks on the verge of an outburst, so Peter charges on: “However, I refuse to play by terms that would ask me to harm you. I propose you choose a more suitable consequence for lying—something that would incentivize honesty without putting our lives in jeopardy.”

Juno crosses his arms, bandaged hands tucked a little awkwardly over his arms. As he ruminates, Peter sorts through his suitcase. He doesn’t like to tie himself to anything for too long—be that thing a person, place, or object—but like a hiker through a bur bush, Peter can’t help but accumulate little seeds of life as he passes by. At the moment he owns a switchblade, a cuff chain earring, and a Rangian Street Poker travel deck. He finds the latter stashed under a red sweater.

Peter returns to the coffee table and pulls out the first deck. Even travel packs take a while to set up. As he sorts through the endless fleet of cards, Juno migrates to the couch. He regards the game with his usual amount of distrust. 

Peter gives the “draw” deck a final shuffle. He pulls a chair over from the table so he can sit across from the couch. 

“All right, then.” He passes Juno his cards. “The punishment for lying?”

Juno makes a “snip” motion with his middle and index finger. “A bad haircut.”

Peter almost flinches. He relies on his hair to seduce his marks as much as he relies on his makeup and clothes. Peter knows his way around a wig, but it would put him at a major disadvantage to have to worry about loose pins and stray hairs for months on end.

Juno has seen through him yet again. Peter forces his head to nod and sits down. He gestures loosely to Juno’s cards.

“You can set these down and block them from view behind a pillow.”

“You’re right,” Juno says, and proceeds to hold them between his fingers. 

Peter merely draws his own cards. It shouldn’t strain Juno’s wounds too badly, for him to pinch a few fingers together. He needs to pick his battles. 

Peter lays out the rules. As the name suggests, travel packs contain a more compact version of Rangian Street Poker; fewer decks mean fewer rules and shuffles. It’s still convoluted to the point of madness. Juno stops to reiterate the fact every few plays—but Peter notes the change of atmosphere. A flame has caught. The tension drains from Juno’s shoulders; the glaze lifts from his eyes. 

At last they’re ready for a practice round. 

“Your first question?” Peter prompts, cards fanned out between his fingers. 

“Where did you get this deck?”

It’s not a question Peter expected. He takes a moment to fold away the memory of Mag—the way he'd prop his thumb on his chin as he considered the sea of cards on the floor. 

Peter counters, “Where did you get your coat?”

“Accepted.”

Cards are drawn; shuffled; traded. At last two contenders emerge: two Crystal Stake cards for Juno, and a two of hearts and a Boar’s Tusk for Peter. Juno pulls a face but concedes. He says,

“Brother stole it from a garage sale like eight years ago.”

Their cards are relocated to the “discard” pile. It’s Peter’s turn to pose a question. He caught the way Juno’s answer stumbled out of his mouth; he wants to press, but changes lanes at the last second.“If you believe there are no good cops, then why are you still with the police?”

“Why are you still in Hyperion?”

“Accepted.”

There’s the tiny clap of old cardstock on wood, over and over—then the _fllllip_ of a shuffled deck. The dust settles with Peter victorious.

Juno groans. “All right. You can’t do good without power, and you can’t get power on Mars unless you’re a cop or a politician. I get along better with weapons than people, so…” There’s a defeated lilt to his hand where he deposits his “discard” cards. “It doesn’t matter. No matter what I do. It won’t fix the city. Some days I accept that and some days I don’t. Haven’t had the gall to quit on one of the bad days, though…so yeah. Until then I’m still ‘with the police.’”

“I see.”

Juno shoulders through to the next round: “Why did you take the couch last night?”

“Why didn’t you return me to the police station?”

“Accepted.” Juno takes his cards. Peter follows suit. 

Juno wins this round by the skin of his teeth—a queen and a Bog Flower against Peter’s ace and four of clubs. 

Peter leans back. He says, “When you arrived last night, you didn’t want me to touch you. It was only out of necessity that you allowed me to clean and bandage your hands. I wanted to respect your space.” 

Juno looks on the fence, so Peter adds, “Also, I’m told I can be a bit of a…cuddler. I didn’t want to…ah. Roll over and cling to you as I slept.”

Juno snorts at that. Peter distracts from his red cheeks with a few awkward card shuffles. 

The game proceeds much the same way. Peter wins most rounds, though Juno claims his fair share—more than to be expected from a new player, travel pack or no. Peter orders some snacks and convinces Juno to take a painkiller. He answers, _where were you born? Do you seriously order takeout for every meal? Do you get paid to kill people?_ He asks, _How do you take your coffee? Have you ever left the planet? How do you spend your time off from the station?_

It takes a while to show, but as the game wears on a new tension piles onto Juno’s shoulders. His words become terse, his motions sharp.

At last he snaps, 

“Just ask already. I know you want to.”

Peter un-fans his cards. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean.”

And Peter does. He cycles the “discard” cards back into the “draw” pile. Then he asks, with careful nonchalance,

“How exactly were you injured last night?”

Juno counters, “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

Peter tenses. In his mind, blood coats his fingers; reactor energy skitters up his arms; red light plays at the corners of Mag’s wide, vacant eyes.

Peter coughs to clear the lump from his throat. “I accept.”

Juno nods. They flip their first set of cards.

It’s the longest round of the game, prolonged by an abundance of caution. Gone are the carefree draws and flips of yesteryear, replaced by fevered quiet as each party ponders their next move. This is not a round either of them can afford to lose.

But the game can’t go on forever. At last the two draw their final cards, Peter from the silver deck and Juno from the classic. Juno reveals an ace and a six of spades—Peter, the Twin Wargoats.

Peter hopes that Juno can't sense his relief. He awaits his answer.

Juno discards his hand of cards with a flick of the wrist and falls back against the couch. 

Peter watches Juno’s chest rise and fall with a hearty sigh. 

He says, “I had a day off yesterday and didn’t get out of bed. I was supposed to clean up before Diamond got home: take out the garbage, do the dishes. That kind of thing.

“Diamond got upset because—fuck, who wouldn’t? She cleans up after my sorry ass day after day, and I’d promised I’d…whatever. I got up to do the dishes. She came up behind me and I dropped a bowl.”

Juno cranes his neck on the couch cushion. He laughs. “Geez. How dumb can you get? Blaster-fire might as well be office ambience—but when I heard that bowl break I felt like I was gonna’ die.

“I remember I…saw the shards and stuffed my hands full like a kid with a piñata. Don’t know why. Guess I decided I had to get them off the floor and the broom would take too long.” He lolls his head to face Nureyev. “That answer your question?”

Peter can’t even nod. Juno had spoken of himself with such practiced venom. Peter can read between the lines well enough to translate his answer; words like “depression” and “trigger” and “abuse” resurface from a file at the back of his head. 

Juno’s answer didn’t have to surprise Peter to hurt him.

Before he can find the right words, Juno stands. 

“I’m gonna’ go see whether I brought my car,” he announces. 

In damage control mode now, Peter adopts a casual tone: “For your sake, I certainly hope so. I can’t guess the exact distance, but your apartment must be miles away.”

“I’ll take sore feet to a ruined steering wheel.” Juno grabs his comms and creds from the table. Without another word, he slips out the door. 

Peter doesn’t expect Juno to return.

He’d taken his coat, comms and creds, after all. Peter doesn’t know how he was supposed to react to Juno’s story, but he can gather his failure from Juno’s hasty retreat.

Once again Peter considers his suitcase—but as long as there’s a chance Juno will return, he can’t bear to leave. Instead he returns the game to its box and the remains of their takeaway snack to the fridge. Then he takes his own advice and peruses the bookshelf. 

One hour becomes two. The shadows shift on the floor. A few droplets gather on the windows, then more as the sim-clouds open. Peter cycles between positions on the couch, some more comfortable than others. He gives up on his novel and he uses his thumb to _fwwwwwwp_ through the pages over and over like a flip-book, stirring up tiny gusts of wind that tickle his face. 

Peter thinks about scattered ceramic. He thinks about the weight of Juno’s hands. He thinks about Mag. How would he react now, to see Peter at the beck and call of a police officer?

It’s as though the question summons Juno from the void. Two thumps sound from across the hotel room: a boot against the door. Peter sets down his book.

When Peter goes to open the door, he finds Juno laden with grocery bags—not between his fingers but slung over his wrists. His coat is damp in places, his hair a little glittery with rainwater. 

“No car,” he says, and skirts around Peter to the kitchen. “But the desk attendant got ahold of the person on shift last night, so that’s one mystery solved. Apparently I showed up covered in blood and signed ‘tall skinny man with sharp teeth’…and she figured she wasn’t paid enough to make trouble. Gave me your room number and went back to her crossword.”

Peter runs his tongue over his teeth. Stupid. As much as he hates them, he really ought to wear fake teeth more often. “She didn’t call the police?”

“You don’t call the HCPD unless you’re prepared to get shot.” Juno dumps his bags on the floor. “Hope you like curry.”

“You brought…groceries.”

Juno gestures to the grocery bags. “What tipped you off?”

“You didn’t have enough creds for this amount of food.”

Juno makes a noncommittal noise and digs a tin of sim-chicken out of a bag. “I’m not gonna’ make you buy takeout for every meal of the goddamn day.”

Peter takes a step towards him. “That’s very considerate of you, Juno, but how do you plan to cook without the use of your hands?”

“If I can hold cards, I can hold a spoon.”

“Just because you can doesn’t—”

“Would you quit it?” Juno snaps loudly. “You know I take out guys like you every day, right? Stop treating me like a kid!”

“I will when you stop acting like one!”

That gets a reaction out of Juno—barely a wince, but enough to twist Peter up with guilt. The groceries are relocated to the counter with tense efficiency; each can and package hits the granite like a dumbbell. Peter wants to help, but he knows the effort would be unwelcome. He hovers at the boundary line between the entryway and the kitchen. 

The rain patters on outside. Peter stares down at the kitchen tiles and counts to ten. He knows he’s taken a wrong turn, but he's unsure how to correct his mistake.

He lands on, “I’m sorry. You’re right; you aren’t made of glass. You’re an adult, and you deserve to be treated as such.”

Juno slows. He sets down the last two cans and turns to Peter.

Peter straightens his cuffs. “I don’t know how to do—how to do any of this, Juno. Would you rather I…pretended you weren’t hurt at all?”

The surprise on Juno’s face becomes something more guarded. He balls up the empty plastic bags, only to realize he has nowhere to put them. He smacks them down on the countertop. 

Juno passes a weary hand over his face.

“Still don’t get why you even care,” he says, “But fine. No, you don’t have to pretend. Just…when I say I can do something? Trust me on that.”

“All right.” 

“Good. Great.” 

Peter feels the relief of solid ground. He gestures to Juno’s hands. “Are your dressings wet? Would you like to change them before—?”

“No, that’s…” Juno looks between the food on the counter and his damp bandages. “Actually? Yeah. Yeah, that’s probably the more sanitary option.”

“Mm. I’ll get the kit.” 

Peter never pegged himself as the “domestic” type. He lives for the thrill of a heist brought to fruition. Any moment spent off the field is transitory—comparative to a dull shuttle ride. Peter may draw; read; sleep, but only in preparation for what lies ahead or to distract from the wait.

Peter missed that shuttle ride a day ago now. It unnerves him to hear the world stream by outside—cars and drones and hover-cycles; perhaps a few stragglers on the street below—and not follow that great urban migration of drivers and passerby, rendered nameless by their speed and numbers.

Peter and Juno are the eddy at the center of a neon river. He should mind the stagnation more than he does. It’s worth the unease, he thinks, to hear the skitter of rain on the windows—to chase the sense memory of Juno’s hands where he’d redone his bandages. It’s worth the shame of broken "first rules," to hear Juno laugh at his grip on the kitchen knife.

“It’s not a machete,” Juno scolds. He takes another knife and performs the correct grip and gesture on Peter’s onion: “See? Roll, don’t stab.”

“I wasn’t stabbing.”

“Pretty sure that onion would disagree.”

Peter grumbles but concedes the round. There’s a tiny smile at the corner of Juno’s mouth as he uncaps a spice tin. The sizzle of vegetable oil mingles with the sound of the rain outside. Once Peter has chopped the onions to the best of his ability, Juno combines them with the garlic. He adds both to the pan of oil on the stove. 

Peter’s thoughts drift to the pot of rice and water on the other burner. He admits, “Sometimes I boil water.”

Juno stirs the onions. When Peter doesn’t go on he says, “For…the adrenaline rush?”

“Tea, mostly.” He pauses. “Or the sound.”

“Huh! So that’s your deal.”

“My…deal?”

“You’re lonely.”

Peter pulls a face. “I fail to see the correlation.”

Juno only passes him another tin. “Cut these. It’s like when people turn on the TV for background noise, right? Makes the silence more bearable.”

“While noise calms me. That’s all.”

“Mm-hmm. Just get me that chicken before the garlic burns.”

Peter turns away. He chops at the sim-chicken, careful to mimic Juno’s demonstrative gesture. The droplets on the window cast squiggly shadows across the floor. It strikes Peter as funny that oil, onions and garlic alone can make a room smell so wonderful. 

Out of nowhere Juno says, “I have to buy those cheap cans of coffee beans because I brew so much coffee for no reason. Gives me something to do on break, I guess. And I like the sound of the coffee maker.”

Peter pauses. “Dare I ask what you do with all the extra coffee?”

“I mean. I drink it? Or give it to Rita. It’s pretty watered down.”

“Still. I don’t envy your heart.”

“My heart has bigger things to worry about.” Juno’s hand stutters around his spoon. “Wow! Okay, that was—never mind. Are you gonna’ be done with that chicken sometime this century, or—?”

Peter gives a few final swipes of his knife, then hands the chicken off to Juno. The process goes on like that: little bursts of smalltalk against a backdrop of rain and rich smells. One by one the neon signs wink to life outside the window. Traffic thins out. Peter helps Juno spoon the curry and rice onto a pair of hotel plates. 

It tastes better than any dish at the Toulouse. 

Peter means to take the couch. He really does. But before he can lie down, Juno snatches his pillow from his hands.

“It’s a king-sized bed, Nureyev,” he snaps. “Just pick a side.”

Peter almost puts up a fight—only to remember their agreement. If Juno says he can share a bed with Peter, he can share a bed with Peter. A wall has come down somewhere between the card game and dinner; Peter can see the rubble but not the weapon responsible.

The answers can wait until he gets some sleep. Peter gets ready for bed. 

It’s odd. He and Mag would trade off so someone was always awake to keep watch. Peter knows how to feign sleep for hours—how to wait until his marks doze off and slink from their bedrooms with his prize of the week. It’s been years since he’s taken on a heist long enough to require him to well and truly _sleep_ next to another person.

He lies down. He’s not afraid yet, but he supposes that will come with time.

Juno sits hunched over the table on the other side of the room. It’s not very late, so he’s decided to finish the “stupid” pamphlet he bought at the store. As Peter watches, he skritches the nail of his forefinger up and back along the bandages of his other hand. Every once and a while he stops to make a new mark on the page.

Peter feels that warm ache settle back between his ribs. He curls farther under the blankets, careful not to lose sight of Juno past the bulge of his pillow.

It should be suicide, to leave his unconscious body in the care of a police officer. But Peter’s trust isn’t without precedent. If anyone else had found Peter the day he'd fled the station, he knows he would have wound up in a jail cell or a drainage ditch. Instead he’d woken up in a safehouse.

It helps, too, that Juno has been so resistant to Peter’s help. Peter doesn’t know why Juno stuck his neck out for someone like him, but he knows he doesn’t expect—or even want—to be paid back for his trouble. If Juno’s goal was to exploit Peter, surely he wouldn’t have needed persuasion to stay...

But Peter’s thoughts slip over themselves. He’s still not afraid as he falls asleep. Quite the contrary: he’s comforted by the presence of another person. It’s been half a decade since Peter could rely on someone to look out for him while he slept. He drifts off to the promise of safety and the quiet scribble of Juno’s pen.

The click of a bedside lamp wakes him an hour later. Through the bleary veil of half-sleep Peter sees Juno pull back the sheets. The bed dips a fragment of a degree as he lies down. He pauses at Peter’s half-lidded stare. 

Juno whispers, so gently Peter thinks he must have dreamed it,

“Go back to sleep, Nureyev.”

Peter complies. 

The few times Peter was required to sleep on a heist, he’d woken with his limbs entangled with his bedmate's. This time he wakes to a sob. 

For whatever reason Peter doesn’t shoot upright. Perhaps he knows deep down that the sound came from Juno, and thus could not pose a threat to his person. He climbs his way to wakefulness and seeks out Juno on the other side of the bed. 

He finds him coiled up on his side, bandaged fingers like talons where they wrench at the blankets. In the dark Peter can barely make out the tears on Juno's face. A tiny keen leaves his lips, and Peter’s heart breaks.

“Juno,” he says, tongue still slow with sleep. 

Another sob wracks him, but Juno doesn’t wake. Peter tries again, louder: “Juno!”

Juno yelps. Wet eyes snap open; Juno squirms backwards on the bed. He slurs dazedly, 

“I’m—I’m sorry.”

“It’s—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.” Juno’s voice strains, pulled taut like a frayed string. “Please go back to sleep, I’m sorry, I’ll—I’ll shut up, I promise I’ll shut up—”

“It’s all right. It’s all right.” Peter goes to prop himself up on an elbow—but stops when Juno shrinks back. “I’m not angry, I promise. You’re all right. It’s all right now…”

Juno seems unconvinced, so Peter repeats that last point for emphasis: _It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right._ He watches Juno come back to himself step by step. His breaths shake their frantic edge, his eyes their glazed sheen. 

He seems to realize what's happened all at once. If possible, his grip tightens around the blankets. 

Juno turns his face down against the bed, his pillow displaced from the headboard. His shoulders hike up to his ears.

Peter reaches out. His hand hovers over Juno’s bandaged one, desperate to unlatch his torn fingers from the blanket.

“Juno,” he asks, before he can make contact. He doesn’t know how to phrase this. “What do you want?”

Peter can’t tell whether he hears a sob or a laugh. Juno tilts his head—barely enough to look back at him. Peter starts when his bandaged hand grasps his wrist.

“The hell is wrong with you?” Juno demands hoarsely. “If you’re lonely, fine! You could have any lady on Mars with looks like yours! You don’t need to put up with my stupid nightmares and, and the weird empty lapses or the anger! You don’t want sex and you sure as hell don’t need a sharpshooter, and that’s all I’m good for! That’s all I can give you better than anyone else! So why? Why the hell do you care what I want?” 

“Because—” Peter stumbles. He lays his free hand on the bandaged one around his wrist—uses the contact to dredge up his courage. “Because I’ve wined and dined and laid with countless people across the galaxy, and none of them have ever made me _care_ like you do. None of them have ever made me feel like a person. Yet you always manage to pull me out of the—the facade. You saw the sorry scraps of Peter Nureyev and decided he was worth your time. Worth your help. 

“So I want to know you. The thousand ways you are who you are. And I want to be real enough to be known by you—more than as a shadow, or a ghost. To be strong enough to…stay, somewhere.”

He’s trespassed on his “no romance” promise, he supposes. He waits for Juno to call him out for the transgression. Instead he whispers, 

“Nureyev. I’m not worth staying for.”

“I’m not sure you get to decide that.” Peter slips Juno’s lax fingers off his wrist and cradles them between his hands. “I’ve told you what I want. Now I’ll ask again: What do _you_ want, Juno?”

Juno swallows. He looks to Peter, face full of some unnamable emotion. Another tear finds his cheek. 

Silence prevails. Juno hadn’t closed the blinds when he came to bed; headlights cast periodic patterns across the far wall. Juno sniffs and screws his eyes shut.

Peter feels a tug. He scoots closer. Juno takes his hand and draws the knuckles up to rest against his forehead. He doesn’t speak—just lets his breath ghost over Peter’s wrist.

Peter doesn’t know why, but it feels like a prayer. He blinks away the heat behind his eyes.

Juno falls asleep like that, Peter’s hand held to his forehead and his question left unanswered—or perhaps answered, but not spoken. Peter lies awake beside him until the sun turns the skyscrapers gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH WORM IT'S ME AGAIN! As always comments make my day and give me STRENGTH (even though I'm often too shy to reply OTL). 
> 
> Hope you guys are doing well!


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